Wednesday, 29 March 2017

This week's prompt photo is Lapse by Camden Heibel-Schmidt, a photo manipulation artist over on Deviant Art called DarkStar797.

Identity

Doctor
Caseon shrugged. “I’m not sure how it works. It could take years to find out.”

“But
imagine the possibilities.” Doctor Janis looked at the iris again through the
microscope. “It’s incredible.”

“I know.
But meantime the patient: Are they the only person with this installed? Where did
they come from?”

Doctor
Janis pushed back his wheelie chair and stood up, perusing the unconscious
patient. “They’re not from Sector 8 that much is clear from the skin tone and
ear shape.” He pointed to the low lobes, how they reached far under the chin.
“Those indicate further out round Sector 15.”

“By the
uncharted border?” Docter Caseon looked doubtful.

“Yes, why
not?”

“I’ve seen
that ear construction on Sector 10’s and Sector 11’s.”

“Yes, but, although
their lobes are long, they don’t have tops. Look at these, they do.”

Doctor Caseon
stepped forward to see where Doctor Janis was pointing. The ear was fully
developed at the top too. “But we have no idea what might have been manipulated
on the body though. If they can do this to irises, they can do anything to any
body part. Who brought them in?”

“They were
found in one of the immigration sweeps, so it would have been PTD, the police
terror division.”

“Arh, so
retina scan didn’t compute?”

“Nope.”

“Not a
surprise. But a full body scan has been done, hasn’t it? We do know this isn’t
a cyborg of some sort, don’t we?”

Doctor
Janis’ eyes widened. “It was brought here to us when the scan didn’t work.
There was no mention of a body scan.”

Both men
took two steps back from the body that was lying peacefully in the chair. The
last time cyborgs had been reported in Sector 8 there had been a planet wide
lock down for several months, the hundred year war still fresh in everyone’s minds.
A repeat of such an event did not appeal to the doctors.

“Inject it.
See how deep the flesh is.” Doctor Caseon flapped his hand at a syringe on the
counter.’

Doctor
Janis grabbed one and took a tentative step forward. Then he hesitated. “But if
it is a cyborg, how is it unconscious? They can’t be knocked out without damage
to the skull.”

The two
doctors paused, staring at each other. Doctor Caseon relaxed a little. “It
can’t be then. The thing in its eye has to be a human implant.”

They moved
forward together with caution. Doctor Janis still had the syringe in his hand.
“It can’t hurt to check though, right?”

He slid the
needle under the skin on the forearm of the patient. A faint whirring noise was
audible. Doctor Caseon looked through the microscope. “The hands of the clock
have started spinning! I can see cogs moving!”

The arm
with the syringe came up and hit Doctor Janis under the chin, flinging him up
and back into the air. He landed against the wall of the lab with a crash. Blood
from where his head made contact leaving a halo on the wall.

The
patient’s other arm came up and grabbed Doctor Caseon round the throat. It
pulled him in until their noses almost touched.

Wednesday, 22 March 2017

Last week's photo pulled in four marvellous entries. It inspired them in such unique ways.

Feel free to join in with previous challenges if this one doesn't inspire you. There is no closing date, and I love reading your entries.

Initially I had another picture in mind for this week's Mid-Week Flash Challenge, but this one spoke to me first. I couldn't resist his beckoning hands and intense gaze. What is he saying to you?

He was taken by Ekaterina Zakharova, a Russian photographer who named him '1Fairy'. She normally photographs nude males, but this guy is only 16! (or was when this was taken). You can find more on her Deviant Art page.

Catherine’s
startled reaction was tempered by the sprites playful nature and beckoning
arms, particularly his electric blue eyes that delved into the deepest parts of
her soul.

She knew
the woodlands around her aunt and uncle’s estate were alive with wonders and
miracles, and she had hoped to meet some of the characters from the stories she
had been told, but up until today they had only been glimpses and peripheral
movements.

She
wondered if her coming of age party on the lawn yesterday had done the trick;
maybe once you turned sixteen it became permissible.

The sprite
in front of her should certainly come with an age restriction; his semi-clad
body causing a flush in her cheeks as he danced in front of her, moving slowly
backwards, drawing her into the thickest parts of the wood. She was happy to
follow; her curiosity ignited by his silent alluring manner and mischievous
grin.

Eventually
they came to a clearing, reached by pushing through a dense thicket which her
guide pushed back for her, to bring her through safely. Initially they were
alone in the clearing and his continued intense gaze sparked thoughts of
romance in her mind. Butterflies took flight inside and out, and Catherine
waited in anticipation for his next move.

But the
silence was broken by laughter nearby, which caused the sprite to erupt in the
same, the light sing-song of his voice like wind in chimes. Bodies burst
through the undergrowth surrounding them, and danced around her, creating a
myriad of colour. Swaths of material rushed through the air, which seemed full
of petals and seed pods swirling around them in the late midsummer afternoon.
All manner of mythical creatures danced past, each slightly different from the
next, all enchanting and full of an energy that seemed to glow around them.

Their
enjoyment was infectious. Catherine joined in, taking their hands and moving with
them in time to the slowly manifesting music as more fairies joined playing
pipes and small hand drums.

Catherine
grew dizzy with the movement and the giggling. She wasn’t sure if she was
spinning or the woods around her were, until eventually she found herself lying
on her back giggling up at the blue sky, lost in the magic of the sounds.

Those
sounds became faint as they were overtaken by voices calling her name. She
sat up to find herself alone, and her parents pushing through the foliage with worried expressions on their faces.

“Catherine,
are you alright? We couldn’t find you?” Her mother came to her side and put her
arms around her.

“I’m fine
mum, I was just ...” Catherine looked around her. How was she going to explain
this? “I was just enjoying the sounds of the woods.”

Her dad
smiled. “They found you, didn’t they?”

“Who?”
Catherine put on her best innocent look. Her mother laughed.

“We knew
they would when you turned sixteen, it’s the right of passage.”

“Right of
passage to what?”

Her dad
squatted down next to her. “To becoming a guardian of one of the best kept
secrets in this family.”

He looked
at her solemnly, his blues eyes glinting in a way that reminded her of the
sprite.

“I won’t
breathe a word of it, I promise.”

He laughed,
the pitch identical to that of the sprite’s, and ruffled the top of her head.
“I know you won’t. Blood is thicker than water; you wouldn’t betray members of your
own family.”

Catherine
smiled as her mum pulled her up to her feet and took her arm, leading her back
through the underbrush. But her father’s words stayed with her as she pondered
them: my own family?

She had
sucked it dry of all there was; there was nothing left for her here. As Maddy
turned from the drying husk of the man that had once been her lover, she
embraced the view of the future. Would it withstand her needs and wants? Would
it bring her replenishment and sanctuary? Would it be worth her efforts should
she risk love and devotion again?

The land
ahead was open, devoid of any richness, but the sky was bright and hopeful and
there were tracks. Those tracks meant she wouldn’t be alone forever, that there
might be others in her life if she let them in.

She
tempered her doubts and scepticism and took a deep breath. She had to muster
her strength and push forward; there was nothing behind her but dust in the
wind. Only by putting one foot in front of the other would there be hope and a
chance at joy.

Again she
fought the thoughts that chuckled at such an absurdity. She did still have time,
she argued, and plenty to offer, but not if she continued to stand here.

She stepped
into the view, and once the light from the bright sky touched her skin she felt
refreshed and renewed. In the distance soft outlines began to emerge of future
places and events. Her heart lifted. She had done the right thing, and her
thoughts were quiet, muted by the truth of her conviction. There was life out
there to be found, and she was going to be a part of it.

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

For some time now I have wanted to get back to writing some Flash
Fiction, but there aren't the amount of weekly flash fiction
competitions there used to be online. I only know of Thursday Threads, hosted by Siobhan Muir running at the moment. (if you know of more, let me know in the comments).

I
contemplated starting my own competition, but really I wanted to write
for them, not judge them, so I decided to begin a challenge where I
write a piece inspired by a photo each week and post it up, and if
others want to join in too that would be great. So here goes for the
first one.

General Guidelines:Story length: Anything up to 750 Words (no minimum).How to enter: Either provide a link in the comments, or post the entire story in the comments.Deadline: I will post a new one every Wednesday, but if you're inspired by a previous weeks, go ahead and write for it.Genre/Theme: All/Any - completely open. It doesn't even have to refer to the picture.

And spread the word. If you are on Twitter, I am @PurpleQueenNL the hashtag is #MidWeekFlash.

Now to the first week's challenge:

This picture was brought to my attention by@noveliciouss on twitter, and interestingly (because I live in Holland) it was taking by a Dutch photographer Hans Wilschut.

Little Boxes

Lying on his back, Jack viewed the rectangle of sky he could
see. It was dusky and moody tonight. The glow of the apartment blocks
surrounding it lent it a blue hue.

As he ran his eyes over all the lit windows climbing up to
the sky, he wondered about the people living in their little boxes, one on top
of the other. Did they know each other? Or did they live in their secluded
worlds, divided by concrete floors and ceilings, oblivious to those around
them?

Jack thought about his own little box and its defining
square rooms, identical in layout to all those around it. It might even share
the same décor. But it wouldn’t share its current state. He didn’t think there
were many that would have fresh blood spattered walls, and limbs in chest
freezers in the utility corner. Although he couldn’t be sure: who knew what
went on in other homes? The stories you head about abuses of wives, husbands,
and children were rife in the media. Maybe it was more likely than he thought.

He took another deep inhale of the night air and thought
about what was ahead of him. He knew he had to go and clean up, but he hated this
part. It took so much time. And he had to make sure he got every little bit, every
last drop, every micro of blood that splashed; otherwise the next victim he
brought back might get suspicious. He didn’t want that, oh no.

Sometimes he liked to spend a bit of time teasing them out
of their shell first, getting them worked up, thinking they might get to see
the inside of his bedroom. But that rarely happened; it had to be someone
special for him to mess up his bedroom for – there had only been one this last
year. He remembered it keenly. He’d had to touch that skin all over before
separating it. The smell it had given off had been divine.

Jack shifted on the grass, the thoughts inspiring him. Maybe
he could find another one like that; maybe one even lived here in one of these
little boxes. He smiled. Yes, that would be good. But he knew better than to
find one so close to home.

He turned over and pushed himself up to his feet, stretching,
the tips of his fingers wiggling as though trying to touch the sky. He was
ready to take on the cleaning job now; he was motivated. It was always easier
to do when the mind had planning to get lost in.